Outside the Storm
by vanillafluffy
Summary: Two years after Mary's death, John has accepted a caretaker job and is living with the boys at an isolated camp on a lake. They're a long way from anywhere...then one by one, the boys fall ill. It's a lot for a lonely man to cope with.


**Outside the Storm**

The runner moves over the crest of the hill at a brisk trot, breath pluming in the crisp air. He's clad in a Marine Corps fatigue jacket with "Winchester" stenciled on the breast pocket, boots from the same source as his jacket, and grey sweat pants. From a distance, it looks like he has a pack on his back, but closer inspection would show it's a toddler. Even with the load, he's setting a good pace. Only when he gets to the bottom of the hill does he look back and frown. Without breaking stride, he turns around and lopes back up the hill.

Midway up the far side, a small boy is sitting down in the road, panting. His father heads over to him, looking impatient. "Come on, Dean-o," he says when he reaches the boy's side. "No sitting down on the job!"

"I'm sorry, Daddy." His son appears tired, like he wants to cry but doesn't have enough energy, and that's not like him. He usually runs circles around his father, at least at the beginning.

Dean staggers a little as he gets to his feet--also unusual, because he's generally pretty well-coordinated, and John Winchester reaches out to rest the back of his hand against his son's forehead. Damn. He'd chalked the boy's flushed cheeks up to wind-chill, but he's definitely running a temperature. They're about a half-mile into what should've been an easy two-mile run, but it's not going to happen today.

John sighs. "Not your fault," he allows. He scoops the boy up and settles him behind his little brother. "Hold on, we'll be home before you know it." With an additional fifty-odd pounds on his back, his return pace slows to a jog, even though he's running downhill again.

"Go, Daddy!" the littlest Winchester hollers.

"I'm going as fast as I can, Sammy," he puffs. Of all times for him to have to cut their run short. Not that he can blame the kids, but...timing. Tomorrow's going to be the second anniversary of Mary's death, and he was hoping that if he wore himself out, it might dull the pain. He's no closer to finding Mary's killer than he was when it all happened. Missouri Mosely gave him clues, but a demon? How the hell is he supposed to find such a thing, much less fight it? If, and it's a big if, demons exist.

The sky is flat primer grey and the weather promises a freeze overnight. He trots back the way they came so recently, back to the camp where he's gotten a winter job as caretaker and handyman. They've been here just under two months---they arrived Labor Day weekend---and John's fixed all the obvious stuff. There are no sticking doors anywhere at Camp Good Thunder, no drips in the restrooms or showers, no clogged gutters, and the windows are well-caulked. He'll save painting the cabins until spring---no use doing it until winter's past---that way, if any of the roofs leak, he can patch them without worrying about accidentally scratching the new paint.

They're bunked down in the house the camp director occupies; it's a bungalow slightly larger than the cabins, with its own kitchen and facilities. The first thing John does after getting Dean into a hot shower is to crank the heater. Most of the time, he'd say put on another sweater and deal with it, but he's not going to take any chances with Dean running a temp. That'll mean getting the fuel oil tank refilled sooner than he'd budgeted for, but it can't be helped.

Dry and in his flannel pajamas and robe, Dean shakes his head listlessly at the offer of Spaghetti-O's. Sammy gets seconds, to his immense glee. It won't hurt for Dean to skip supper and go straight to bed. John administers chewable orange aspirin, thankful he remembered to stock it, and makes sure there's a glass of water at his son's bedside. Dean can leave the light on and read until it's time for Sam to go to bed, if he feels like it.

There's not a helluva lot else to do up here but read and do crafts or make-work. There's an ancient GE TV that halfway picks up one of the Rochester stations, but it's hardly worth the eyestrain. Their biweekly trip to the library was two days ago, so there's a fresh stack of reading material for the older Winchesters. Sam has crayons, a fresh coloring book and a supply of drawing paper. There's a Mason City, Iowa radio station that plays a good selection of golden oldies, and that masks the silence in the living room.

Sam is fussy without Dean's company. John admires his drawings, tries to keep him quiet so his brother can rest, and stares at his book of mythology without absorbing a word of it. If Mary was here...right. If his wife was still alive, he wouldn't be sitting here in the woods, at least ten miles from the nearest pediatrician. Dean would be in his own bed in their home in Lawrence, with his mother to do all those nurturing things that women seem born to do, and John is baffled by. There's probably more he should be doing than washing off the germs, giving him aspirin and sending him to bed---but damned if he knows what.

When he puts Sam to bed at eight, Dean barely stirs. The Hardy Boys book he was reading is face-down on the covers. John marks the page and sets it on the bedside table. His son's breathing is raspy, and when John checks his forehead, it seems even hotter than before. It's too early for more aspirin, but mindful that dehydration could be a problem, he rouses the boy and coaxes him into drinking most of the glass of water.

A second dose of aspirin and more water at nine-thirty...John gets out the phone book and tries to figure out where the closest all-night clinic or ER would be, just in case. Whatever possessed him to move his kids to the middle of nowhere? A free place to live plus a salary had seemed like a great deal when he'd heard about the caretaker job, and the local school district had been flexible about home schooling, so he could keep an eye on the boys and they'd have plenty of room to play without their dad having to worry about reckless drivers, schoolyard bullies or child molesters...and now this.

John knows it's cold and flu season. It's a virus, not a damned conspiracy, and he may be more suspicious than he used to be, but he isn't that far gone. Sure, after that prick Guenther called Child Services on him, he'd gotten paranoid---but even paranoids can have enemies. Like demons, according to Missouri, but he knows better than to voice that concern. More likely, Dean had come into contact with some germs on their trip to the library...he sighs. It's Murphy's Law in action.

It doesn't help his state of mind when he tries to call the nearest 24-hour clinic for directions. "You must have a really old phone book, fella---we've been here for two years," says Franco's Pizza. Swell.

Dean's shivering when John looks in at eleven o'clock. He raids the linen closet for extra blankets and bites his lip. It's at least thirty miles to the nearest ER---is it serious enough to pile the boys into the Impala and drive all that way at midnight? Although the car has a great heater, with his luck they'd break down in the middle of nowhere, and it's supposed to freeze tonight. So, it's probably not a good idea, but what's he supposed to do?

"I'm Maggie from Mason City, here to keep you company all night long, and I have another great blast from the past coming atcha," croons the overnight DJ as the bouncy strains of "Rock Around the Clock" comes over the airwaves.

For the first time in what feels like days, John smiles. He copies down the the number of the request line that Maggie announces and calls in.

"Hey, Maggie" he says when she comes on the line, "do you know anything about kids?"

"Excuse me?" She sounds startled, but John's not up for small talk right now.

"Kids. My son's sick, and I've given him aspirin and an extra blanket, but he has a fever and he's shivering---" John takes a deep breath.

"It sounds like he should see a doctor." He recognizes the "keep him calm and talk him down" voice that Guenther had used a lot toward the end.

"I'm not from around here, and we're living off the beaten track. I don't want to drag him out in the middle of the night if I can help it."

"I don't blame you, on a night like this," she agrees, less accusatory now. "What's your name?"

"John. Look, Maggie, I know you're not there to give medical advice, but I'm in the middle of nowhere and I don't have anyone else to ask."

"You could try a sponge bath. Wipe him down with cool water to try to reduce his fever. Oh, and you'd better put down a rubber sheet so the mattress doesn't get wet."

That doesn't sound too helpful. "Cold water? Are you sure?"

"Not cold-cold. More like, room temperature. Hey, I have three girls, it works on them. I really don't think boys are that different." Her tone has lightened up; she must've decided he's just a concerned parent, not some kind of wing-nut. "He's probably not going to like it either."

"I'll try that, thanks."

"Hope it works for you. Anything you want to hear?"

"Surprise me," he says, and goes to improvise a sponge bath.

Rubber sheets? No, but he's got a nearly-new tarp that'll work. He spends ten minutes at the sink rinsing his only sponge out, because Turtle Wax doesn't have any curative powers he knows of.

"This one's going out to John," he hears Maggie croon. "He's having a rough night; it's all part of being a parent. Hang in there, John!"

The treacly strains of Maureen McGovern singing "There's got to be a morning after---" make him cringe; of all the songs she could've picked! He has a vivid memory of seeing _The Poseidon Adventure _with his arm around Mary, making fun of the song, which received an ungodly amount of airplay that summer when they were still dating.

Dean's not happy to be awakened and stripped down. John reaches for the pot he's filled with water, testing it with his elbow the way he used to test bathwater when the boys were infants. "Shhh, it's gonna be okay. Don't wake your brother."

The feverish boy tries to wriggle away. He struggles on the tarp, squirming as John swipes the moist sponge across his face, neck and torso.... Thank God he doesn't have girls, John thinks, remembering Maggie's comment. That would be a level of embarrassing he doesn't think he could handle.

Dean struggles, thrashing to escape the wet sponge. John's holding him with one arm, wiping him down with the sponge in his other hand, and trying not to let Dean kick the pot with water off of the nightstand. Sammy's a pretty sound sleeper---they'd have to yell to wake him at this time of night---but John keeps his voice low and tries to soothe the sick boy.

Since Mary's death, Dean's been quiet more often than not, only acting like a normal kid with his brother. His near-silence now isn't unusual, and John, focused on trying to bring down the boy's fever, isn't expecting that to change.

"I want Mommy." Dean says clearly as he flails.

If he'd pulled a hachet out from under his pillow and sunk it into his dad's gut, it wouldn't have been any more unexpected or painful. John drops the sponge into the pot and hugs Dean close. His voice isn't steady as he mutters, "Me too, buddy. Me too."

Neither one of them has said it before; it's been the elephant in the room for a long, long time. Dean's crying quietly, and John wraps everything around them, tarp and bedclothes alike, and he pats his son on the back, choking down all the lies people have said to him: It'll be okay, you'll get over it, she's in a better place.

He won't say any of those things; he won't lie to his boy.

And he won't have to, John realizes with relief. After a few minutes of heartbroken sobbing, Dean has fallen asleep.

John brushes the back of his hand against his stubbled cheeks, trying to subdue his grief. Tears don't help. He has to stay strong for his boys, has to take care of them. Carefully, he shifts around, retrieves the abandoned sponge. Dean doesn't wake up. His breathing is snuffling---from crying, not the cold, his father hopes. By the time the water has reached true room temperature, the heat radiating from the boy has lessened.

It's past 2 a.m., no wonder he's so beat. John's footsteps thud heavily against the floorboard as he makes his way to his own bed. He pulls the blanket up, and he's asleep within minutes.

The weather when he awakens is just as sullen and overcast as the day before, but even colder. Flurries start drifiting down around noon. Dean stays in bed except for quick trips to the bathroom. He's subdued; his dad does his best to keep Sammy entertained and out of the sickroom. The toddler isn't happy about it---he's used to playing with his brother, and clearly doesn't think his father measures up as a playmate. John finally gets him settled down with crayons and paper.

All Dean's had today was a couple bites of a blueberry PopTart. John tries to think of what would be suitable invalid food, rummaging through the cabinet until the sight of a red and white can reminds him of Mary's favorite cure-all.

The patient isn't happy at having to sit up in bed with the tarp across his bedcovers. He protests he isn't hungry, he wants to go back to sleep. "Don't whine, Dean," his dad says, setting the tray onto his lap.

John's proud of himself for thinking of the menu---he's even more pleased by its presentation. Instead of investigating the camp mess hall for trays, he set the soup bowl into a rectangular cake pan. It's tomato soup, loaded with vitamin C, according to the label on the can---and there's a toasty grilled cheese sandwich cut on the diagonal, fat triangles tucked into the upper corners of the make-shift tray. A soup spoon, a paper towel for a napkin...it looks pretty good, even if Dean's too stuffed up to smell it.

For a moment, Dean just stares at it, and John holds his breath.

One spoonful...a second spoonful...a bite of sandwich...he isn't wolfing it down the way he usually does, but he isn't picking at it, either. John counts it as a victory and leaves him to it.

Twenty minutes later, the soup is almost gone and the sandwich is down to crusts. John removes the tray and the tarp, and lets Dean snuggle back down to sleep.

He's not doing too badly, John thinks as he washes up. They made it through the night, Dean is resting comfortably with a full belly, his fever's down.

Sam's been occupying himself with his artwork, and he gets a grin out of his dad with a picture he holds up proudly. "'Pala!" he says, and John studies the drawing. There's a black box with black circles on the bottom. A line indicates that the hood is up, and a big stick figure is pointing at something in the engine compartment while two little stick figures stand nearby.

"We're fixing the Impala?" he asks, and Sam nods eagerly

"Fix wif big wrench!" His chubby finger indicates something that John thought was a broken branch. "Then we go, go go!"

"Kiddo, you're gonna make a heckuva mechanic someday." John says. And who knows? Once he's taken care of the evil that tore their family apart, the boys can have a normal life. When it's time for college, his boys can be whatever they want to be.

Rewriting the past...he's too much of a realist to indulge in that what if, but the future...? There's Dean's college fund, still sitting in the bank in Lawrence, accruing interest. Maybe, if he can figure out how to get that thing, that so-called demon...they can put down roots, he can start up another garage and begin saving again. Sitting with the unopened book on his knee, John imagines Dean playing high school football---that could net him an athletic scholarship, help stretch their funds. Sam...maybe he really will want to be a mechanic...it'll be a proud moment when he can change the name on the sign to 'Winchester & Son'. Or Sam might wind up an engineer, designing cars---the point is, he'll have options....

John dozes off in the chair; it's dark when he comes awake, and he's alarmed. He's slept for a couple hours---not surprising after last night---but Sam's not over by the bookcase and he feels a stab of fear. "Sammy!" he calls. He isn't there in the sitting room, he isn't in the hallway, or the boys' room---Dean is coughing in his sleep---not in the kitchen---John yanks open the back door. What if his son has wandered outside?

It's fucking snowing---it's like powdered sugar on a donut, barely sticking, but it's coming down in thick, fluffy waves. Oh, Christ, what has he done? Asleep on the job, Sam's jacket is hanging right there on the hook---without stopping for his own jacket, John bolts for the shower enclosure where the Impala is garaged. No sign of his son there, either. He rakes his fingers through his hair, trying to make his brain work through the terror.

Ropes. There are a couple of coils of ropes in the toolshed; he can string one between the cabin and the Impala and use it as an umbilical to search the surrounding terrain. Good thing there's a heavy-duty flashlight in the glovebox, he's lucky he didn't break his ankle running out here---running out here and leaving Dean alone. God, he'd better go back in, let Dean know what's going on, he shouts his missing son's name again, but there's no reply.

Back to the cabin first. Grab his own jacket so he doesn't get pneumonia, AND Sammy's jacket---THEN go string the ropes.

Dean sounds like he's about to lose a lung, and with fresh guilt, John realizes the boy's two hours late on his latest dose of aspirin. He dashes into the bathroom, yanking the string on the light so hard that it comes away in his hand. In the harsh light of the bare bulb overhead, he stops.

Dark hair is visible in the bathtub. Sam. Asleep. The question of what he's doing in there is answered by the crayon mural he's created on the inside of the old clawfoot tub. Rage wells up to counteract the panic, and John punches the wall, hard. His fist goes through the plaster and lathes beneath, and his son stirs sleepily.

"Pitcher, daddy," the toddler mumbles. "Big pitcher."

Deep breath. This is nothing. He's safe. That's what's important, right? He has no idea how much he's scared his father. And he probably thinks that crap will just wash off, it's a bathtub, right? John has months to try to get the wax off the enamel and teach his son where not to express his creativity....

He delivers the aspirin to Dean---whose temp is going up again, damn it. He scoops Sam out of the tub, bundles them both up, and goes out to stretch the rope between the cabin and the Impala just in case. As he's tying the rope that terminates at their back porch, Sam---who has followed him every step of the way, reassuring his still-tense dad that he's not going to disappear on a whim---scoop handfuls of snow from the edge of the porch and flings it into the air, chortling.

When his safety precaution is in place, they go back inside. After his labor in the cold, John's aware of how much warmer the house is---good thing he put the time into weatherizing the place. He'll need to pick some mittens up on their next trip to town, he thinks as Sammy thaws his cold hands in warm water. New ones for Dean, too, since their dad has no idea where last year's are. Well, he'll have plenty to keep him busy---he's mended the light cord, but there's still the hole in the wall to fix, the tub to scrub, better start a shopping list: scouring pads, a spare tarp, extra flashlight batteries, mittens and extra socks....

Dinner is chicken noodle soup from a can for the boys, canned beef stew for him---except he ends up putting most of the boys' bowls into the fridge. Dean says he isn't hungry and Sammy's cranky. He's rubbing is ears as if they're still cold, but there's no sign of frostbite. Is he warm? Maybe---John's not sure. He could tell with Dean, but the cabin is warm enough now that it might just be that and the two sweatshirts Sam's wearing.

It's not a good evening. John's never considered himself a quitter, but only the rotten weather stops him from getting the hell out of Camp Good Thunder for keeps. Between the weather and Dean's temp, he doesn't dare. He has snow tires on the Impala---new ones, and chains if he needs them, but he hates the idea of taking the 20-year old car out on the curvy, hilly roads in six inches of snow---because there are no plows out here, and no place to call from if they wind up in a ditch.

Sam falls asleep over his coloring book, and John carries him in to bed. Dean is sitting up with his book, and John reaches out a hand to check his temp once Sammy's settled in. No doubt with Dean---he's still really feverish.

"I think we need to sponge you down again, Dean-o," he says reluctantly.

Dean shakes his head violently. "No, Dad! Please!"

"I'm not doing it to be mean, I'm doing it because it'll cool down your fever." Dean's expression is so horrified that John proposes a compromise. "I'll tell you what. Instead of sponging you down on the tarp, we'll go into the bathroom and use the shower fixture and I'll get in there with you." One thing he's learned about leadership: Troops respect a commander who shares their foxhole. And come on, it's warm water in a house that's comfortably warm. How bad can it be?

His elbow is a lying sonuva bitch, John realizes as he steps into the decorated tub. He gasps as the so-called warm water slides down his back and butt-crack and his balls go north like the intake of breath was a signal to haul them up. "Fuck, that's cold!"

"Fuck!" Dean echoes as he gets the benefit of the spray.

John knows he shouldn't laugh---he's really tried not to let his NCO vocabulary infect the boys---but it's been a rough couple of days...no, barely a day and a few hours since their interrupted run. It just feels longer because of his patchy sleep schedule. He pulls the clear vinyl curtain around them, trying to keep the floor dry, and shivers.

When Dean recognizes the sponge this time and sniffs it---there's a lingering aroma of Turtle Wax, despite John's best efforts---he applies it to his skin with enthusiasm. "I'm gonna wax myself so no more germs can get on me, they'll just slide right off and I'll never be sick again!"

They stay in there for eight minutes---their alarm clock is on the edge of the sink to keep track of the time---and once he's been thoroughly toweled down, Dean's temp feels normal. That he feels better is clear: He's lost the dull stare he's worn during his few waking periods, and when he announces he's hungry, the shower episode is worth it. John reheats the chicken soup, doles out crackers, and congratulates himself on mastering the whole "Mr. Mom" thing.

"You know," he says as he tucks the boy in, "You learned a very grown-up word tonight. I wasn't planning to teach it to you just yet, but it kind of slipped out."

"So don't teach it to Sammy?"

"Definitely don't teach it to Sammy. In fact, it might be a good idea to forget you heard it for a few years."

"Unless it's fucking cold?" Dean asks, wide green eyes shining with mischief. This is the alertness he expects from Dean, it's a relief to see it back.

His dad has to fight to keep the grin from his face. "Not even then."

A sigh from his son. "Oh, okay."

John scrubs his fingers through Dean's hair. It's dry, and he's relieved to find no noticeable temp. "Good boy. You get some sleep, now."

Peace reigns 'til eleven-twenty, when Sammy's wails begin. A nightmare, John thinks as he trots into the boys' room. But Dean's anxious questions go unanswered: Sammy's not paying attention to either one of them. He's covering his ears with his hands, and he's pretty warm.

At this rate, John's about 48 hours away from having to go out for more baby aspirin. Sighing, he tells Dean to take his blankets and go sleep in the other bedroom, he'll stay here and take care of everything. Nothing works, though: Dimming the lights doesn't help, holding him and rocking him doesn't help, neither does another blanket or offering him his stuffed panda to cuddle. Sammy is inconsolable.

"Hi, Maggie---it's John again."

"My goodness, what's wrong?" His son is screaming in the background, it probably sounds like he's being tortured.

"My youngest---he's two and a half. He's holding his ears and screaming. I tried aspirin, but it isn't helping."

"Aspirin? No, if he's got an ear infection, he's going to need amoxicillin."

"Is there anything I can do right now to help him feel better?"

"You need to get him to a doctor."

"Look, it's not that easy. We're out in the country, we've had eight inches of snow, there are no snowplows and my car is twenty years old." Which makes it sound like he's driving a beater, but she doesn't need to know otherwise.

A sigh. "You could try a hot water bottle wrapped in a towel."

"I'll do that, thanks."

"Wait---call me back in a couple hours, let me know how he's doing."

"Will do." John hangs up and says, "Dean?" His son is in the kitchen in seconds, proof that none of them are sleeping tonight. "I need you to keep an eye on Sammy for a little while. I need to go out to the boathouse for a few minutes." He fills a kettle and puts it on the stovetop to heat while he goes out to hunt for what he needs.

The boathouse is where the camp has stored its floats and water toys. John hasn't seen any hotwater bottles around the cabin, but there ought to be something out there he can improvise with. The snowfall is easing up, he's relived to note. If it's not too bad in the morning, he'll pack the boys into the car and take his chances on the road, it kills him to see his son in so much pain. When he calls Maggie back, he'll ask her what she thinks they need for a home pharmacy.

After some rummaging through the stored bins of vinyl, he finds some rectangular cushions---grabbing an armful, he hurries back to the cabin. First he inflates it, then fills the sink with hot water and holds the cushion under to displace the air with water. He doesn't fill it all the way, wanting it to be pillowlike, not solid. Mindful of the shower experience, he tests the heat against the side of his face, and wraps it in a towel.

He sends Dean back to his bedroom and tries to get comfortable with Sammy. It takes a while, but John discovers that the hot-water pillow is pliable enough that it can wrap it around the back of his son's head so there's a warm sac of water against each ear.

Some time after one, Sam's asleep, and John cautiously unfolds himself and escapes the bed. He takes the lukewarm cushion with him, and plans his next move. What if he fills a stockpot with hot water and reheats it? He can keep several warm at a time that way, if he has to use them again, there will always be one ready.

"Hey, Maggie---thanks for the tip. He's sleeping, finally."

"I'm really worried about you and your boys, John. Where are you?"

He explains about Camp Good Thunder, and gives a strategically edited version of why the caretaker job had seemed like a way to bond with his boys after their mom's death. "It's almost stopped snowing," he tells her wearily. "Tomorrow, we'll head in to town and get them looked at."

"I just wish there was more I could do to help," she says.

"You've been a huge help, Maggie. Thanks for everything."

True to form, Sam wakes up bawling about ten minutes after John climbs into Dean's bed to try to sleep. He retrieves a hot cushion, wraps it in two towels, and rocks until his son is asleep again. Then he changes out the cushion for a fresh one and goes back to bed.

Something is banging.

John starts awake. What the hell---? Has a tree come down? Is Dean playing the drums with the pots and pans?

Someone's at the door.

He staggers to the kitchen. Looking out the window over the stove, he sees a four-wheel drive vehicle parked out there, and his sleep-clogged brain thinks it's the owners of Good Thunder checking up on him. When he opens the back door, the tall man standing there is nobody he knows.

"Are you John?" His visitor has dark hair, showing some silver---he's about John's age, maybe a little older---and John can feel himself being studied as intently as he's sizing the other man up.

"Who wants to know?"

"My niece Maggie asked me to look in on you." Maggie! If Maggie's uncle can give them a ride to a doctor's office, he'll have a friend for life. "My name's Jim Murphy."

Jim Murphy turns out to be Pastor Jim Murphy, and he's brought a quantity of things, including a real hot water bottle and a thermometer. He unpacks a carton of groceries, and John fights with his pride. They've pretty much been living off of cold cereal, canned foods, powdered milk, peanut butter and the like. Dean's grilled cheese sandwich is the only cooking John's done in...a long time. Jim has real milk, eggs, bacon, a canned ham...it's charity, John thinks, tasting failure as bitter as day-old coffee, but he'll find a way to repay it, damn straight he will.

There's a trip to a local clinic later that morning. Maggie was right---there's a lot of amoxicillin in the boys' future, but John relaxes when the doctor says it's all typical childhood illness, nothing dangerous. During the course of their day out, between doctor visit and shopping, Dean takes to Jim, shy but not distant, although petulant Sam's trust is slower in coming. Their new friend doesn't take it personally; he's the most laidback person John's met in a while, and it makes his generosity easier to endure.

Over the course of the next couple days, John and Jim take shifts with the boys, and when John comes down with a bug of his own, Jim good-naturedly keeps them all fed and entertained.

The snow melts and the skies are clear; the hills are grey and green and brown, pines and skeletal trees with a carpet of shed leaves, winter closing in but giving them a few milder days to enjoy before the next onslaught.

It's been many months since John's had another adult male he could really talk to. As he and Jim get acquainted, they trade combat stories; while Corporal Winchester was slogging through the jungles of Southeast Asia for the US Marine Corps, Jim Murphy, a conscientious objector, was serving the Peace Corps in Africa. Some of his stories about the war that erupted there during his tenure are as hair-raising as anything Vietnam offered---without benefit of boot camp.

"But I learned," Jim says. "The local militia trained me in tactics, and I already knew how to shoot from hunting trips with my dad. Of course, the PC didn't like like it---they shipped my ass Stateside four months early, and I ended up riding a desk---but the experience has come in handy a few times."

During a late-night coffee-klatsch, without making a conscious decision, John hears himself telling Jim the whole story about Mary's death---about Missouri Moseley's frightening disclosure and how he needs to find his wife's killer and avenge her death---but he's worried that he's crazy, because that's what everyone he's talked to so far has said, except the psychic, and---a demon? That's crazy, right?

"No, you're not crazy," Jim tells him, calmly sipping a cup of black-and-sweet. "A wise man once said, 'The devil's greatest trick is making us believe he doesn't exist.' There are demons, John---and ghosts, and a lot of other creatures that most of the world calls mythical. There are also people who know better, people who hunt them. Come spring, when you're ready to leave here, there's a man in South Dakota I can introduce you to. He lost his wife a couple years ago under suspicious circumstances. I think you two could help each other out."

John nods. He's not crazy. He isn't delusional with grief, he doesn't have post-traumatic stress, he hasn't turned into a hysterical fool looking for a bogeyman---there really are things that go bump in the night, and one of them tore his wife apart. "Thanks, Jim."

"There are steps you can take. Laying down salt lines at your doors and windows, for instance. It's like weather-striping for the paranormal. And that book you've got---" Jim retrieves the library book from the living room and flips through it. "These are symbols for protection---they'll help, too. I've got more books at my place you can borrow. Why don't you bring the boys down for Thanksgiving? A change of scene will do you all good."

A real Thanksgiving---John would rather not repeat last year's frozen dinner fiasco---and from the enthusiasm his sons greet the idea with the next day, they'd like it too.

Relieved of the burden of doubting his own sanity, John sleeps better than he has since Mary's death.

Jim departs on Friday morning, five days after his dramatic arrival, returning to his church an hour away in Blue Earth. He leaves behind three new friends who wave good-bye as Jim drives away.

Dean and Sammy are both outfitted with good, warm clothes and they've both bounced back to being the energetic kids their dad is used to. Granted, John's popping decongestants every few hours, but he's doing better himself. He's got someone he can talk to, someone who doesn't think he's crazy, and maybe at Thanksgiving dinner he can say thank you to Maggie, who helped bring it all about.

"Hey boys!" he calls to his sons, who are tossing acorns at an old tire swing, "Let's go for a run!"

And they do.

The End


End file.
